Vanished (2 page)

“Gypsies!” exclaimed Paddington. “
Tchah!
What nonsense! We've got quite enough ridiculous legends without fancies of that sort!”

With his attitude Paddington seemed like the scion of generations of Blackpoolers like Aleister, when he was almost as recent an arrival as Molly and Michael. But the inspector's glare was already focused on someone else. Willie Myners.

The man had done an odd job or two around the Graham household, called in by either their housekeeper, Iris, or their caretaker, Irwin. But Rohan Wallace did better work. He'd become a friend of Michael's along with Dylan Stewart, and Molly hadn't seen Willie recently.

Now he was shrinking away from a young, very angry man. “That's Robbie Glennison, isn't it?” Molly asked.

“The very same,” Paddington answered. “He works for Callum at the Smokehouse. When he works at all. He's not quite right in the head.”

Robbie looked like something dredged up out of the harbor, eyes bulging and lips flapping. Between the noise
of the crowd and the band, Molly couldn't hear what he was telling Willie, but there was no mistaking his rage.

Willie raised a hand protectively and took a step back that almost sent him into the gutter. As usual, he was casually dressed to the point of sloppiness, but his shaggy head of dark hair and his pale, intense face gave him the rakish charm of a romance novel's bad boy. Not that Molly cared for bad boys. Michael could occasionally have a devil-may-care air, but Molly had quickly learned that came from his childlike curiosity, a trait she now loved about him. Most of the time.

Paddington started toward Willie and Robbie. For once, Molly hung back. She could believe Robbie was unstable. He certainly looked it now, leaning into Willie's face, jabbing a bony forefinger into the chest of his sweater.

Then Police Constable Luann Krebs cut in from the side. Her glasses gleaming with zeal, her broad shoulders set beneath their epaulettes, she demanded of the two men in a voice loud enough for Molly to hear, “What's this, then, Robbie? Willie? Have you got a problem I can sort for you? Or are you just making trouble?”

Neither man answered. Robbie glared one last time at Willie then shambled up Compass Rose Avenue, kicking petulantly at a rack of newspapers outside the offices of the
Blackpool Journal
and earning a dirty look from Fred Purnell, editor, reporter and publisher, who was just coming out of the front door.

Willie melted into a second guided tour, this one conducted by Liam McKenna's sister, Holly. She was as beautiful as Liam was grotesque, her long, black hair hanging to her waist like a silk curtain, her off-the-shoulder blouse, flowing skirt and necklace of fake gold coins suggesting campfires and gypsy wagons. She greeted Willie with
a smile and a wink. The other members of her group, mostly men, did not.

Shaking his head, Paddington made a creditable about-face and stalked off.

Molly and Michael suspected that Paddington had been assigned to Blackpool to while away time until his retirement without getting in the way of the productive members of the North Yorkshire Police Authority.

Krebs had arrived last spring and taken part in the investigation of the murder outside the Red Lantern Theatre. Krebs made no bones about having been sent by her superintendent-father to play a big fish in a small pond—she intended to advance rapidly. And right now she was staring after Willie Myners, her eyes calculating.

Molly didn't try to fathom what was on Krebs's mind. Instead, she smiled at Fred Purnell—his inquisitive nature had also placed him on Paddington's handle-with-care list—and turned toward the bandstand just as the music stopped.

There was Michael, trying to pry Lydia Crowe off his chest. No problem if he'd danced with her. Big problem that she was claiming more than a dance.

Her fringes shaking with indignation, Molly arrived at the scene just as Michael finally extricated himself from Lydia's tentacles. He had barely sent Molly a grin of mingled relief and embarrassment when two more male figures converged on the scene.

Aleister in his dark suit really did look like a crow, Molly thought. She should have dressed as a scarecrow. But this time he ignored Molly. He grasped Lydia's arm, shook his head reprovingly and opened his mouth.

He stood there without speaking as a twentyish, red-haired and freckled young man dressed in a dark blue Austen-era frock coat appeared on Lydia's other side.
Addison Headerly's gaze was fixed on her face with the open adoration of a puppy for a bowl of kibble.

Molly's eyes met Michael's, two minds with one thought:
Addison's in love with Lydia. Poor Addison.
The Headerlys were as old a Blackpool family as the Crowes, but Molly sincerely doubted Aleister would consider them in the same league.

Aleister tried to shoo Addison away, his patrician nose turned up. The youngest Crowe, Aubrey, stopped and then reversed course. Addison held his ground. Lydia stood with her arms folded and her lower lip protruding, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her pleasure at being the center of attention.

The Grahams backed away from the scene, Michael stooping low enough to bring his mouth close to Molly's ear, seizing the opportunity to take a tiny nibble of it. “Here's us, love, thinking small towns are peaceful places. Blackpool's proved us wrong.”

“There's more drama here than at the Actor's Studio.” Molly spoke more lightly than she felt—drama sometimes devolved to tragedy.

He imitated her light tone. “You've got plenty of opportunities to meddle in other people's business.”

“There you go, Mr. Pot, calling Mrs. Kettle black.” Beyond Michael's arm, Molly saw Tim Jenkins and his camera operator starting toward Holly's tour group. The comfortably padded form of Fred Purnell crossed his path, either intending to suggest an alliance or defend his territory. A gull squawked, making a sound like a rusty screen door. The sea lapped gently at the concrete seawall as they got closer. The band started up again.

Then the music trailed away into a ragged blare. People shouted, pointed then surged toward the seawall. “Whoa,”
Molly exclaimed, even as Michael asked, “What the hell is that?”

A magnificent pirate ship sailed past the lighthouse and into the harbor. A Jolly Roger snapped from the top of its tallest mast, and its tightly-reefed sails shuddered. With a rolling rumble and succession of flashes, the cannons ranged along its railing fired. Smoke filled the docks and gulls hurled themselves shrieking into the sky. All the people who had rushed forward now ducked for cover.

“It's the pirate's curse!” a woman—Holly?—screamed.

Coughing in the acrid smoke, Molly didn't protest as Michael's strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her down behind a concrete planter teeming with flowers. Still, she managed to peer out from one side as he peeked out from the other.

Neither would miss a moment of this. Whatever this was….

N
O CANNONBALLS PLOWED
through the docks. No grape-shot swept the street. No one, Molly realized, was hurt.

Michael was helping her to her feet when a plummy voice rang out, channeled through a bullhorn. “My apologies for the dramatic entrance. The cannons are film props, not real. No harm was intended.”

“Maybe it wasn't
intended,
” Molly said.

Michael coughed. Still tasting the pungent smoke herself, Molly pounded him on the back even as her eyes turned toward the ship.

The sea breeze dissipated the smoke. With one last rumble of its engine, the ship glided to a stop beside the long pier extending into the Blackpool Harbor and Marina. Sailors dressed in traditional striped tops and red neckerchiefs tied up the vessel and, when everything was secure, ran out a gangplank.

Paddington hurried up, muttering about nerve, public nuisance and permission from Blackpool Council. But with an excited buzz, the entire crowd rushed the dock and he was pushed aside, leaving him to stand chewing his moustache beside Krebs. Her hand opened and closed at the side seam of her navy blue uniform, as though searching for a truncheon that wasn't there.

Michael and Molly were swept forward with everyone else. They found themselves standing at the end of the gangplank as a man in a beautifully tailored blue
yachtsman's jacket and white peaked cap set down his bullhorn, then stepped onto the dock with the nonchalance of either an actor or a lord.

Molly's internal social Rolodex spun and produced an ID. She whispered in Michael's direction, “That's Trevor Hopewell of Hopewell Transport PLC, one of those octopus corporations that own everything from airlines and shipping companies to motorway garages….” Her voice trailed away. She'd seen photos, but they didn't do justice to the man's dashing good looks. In his mid-thirties, blond hair, square jaw and lean build, he was the kind of guy who turned every woman's head. Even Molly felt her eyes glaze over and her mouth drop open.

Behind and above her, Michael snickered. All she heard was, “He's a pretty one, yes…” She elbowed him into silence as the man stopped in front of them.

“Trevor Hopewell,” he announced to them. “I've been hearing about Blackpool's Seafaring Days—thought I'd have a look, being something of a seafarer myself.”

“Molly Graham. My husband, Michael.” She got a grip on herself, and on Hopewell's hand, which she then passed on to Michael. He offered the man a slightly off-center grin as well as his and Molly's business bona fides—her grant-writing, his video game design.

“Quite impressive,” Hopewell said, but his eyes, not the piercing blue of Michael's but a more ambiguous shade, focused on Tim Jenkins's microphone and camera operator and Fred Purnell's camera and notebook. Every one of his teeth gleamed in a smile. “Members of the press, I see. Please, come aboard the
Black Sea Pearl,
my lads. Mr. and Mrs. Graham, you, too—anyone else? Ah, yes, the local constabulary.” He regarded a baldheaded man in oil-stained overalls at the base of the gangplank. “And you are…?”

“Owen Montcalm,” he replied. Montcalm gestured with his scrimshaw pipe, its arc taking in all the fishing and pleasure boats bobbing nearby. “I run this marina. Thought you might like to discuss a docking fee.”

“Of course, of course,” Hopewell told him, and began waving all and sundry up the gangplank. The sundry—including Paddington, Krebs and another constable, Fotherby—joined the procession, as did Addison Headerly and Aubrey Crowe.

Michael pressed forward. As though the gleam in his eye and the furrow in his brow wasn't enough to tip Molly off to his racing thoughts, the camera he produced from his pocket revealed all. He was always contemplating new video games, and had just this morning said something about one involving pirates. Here was his chance to do research.

Singing just loud enough for him to hear, “Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,” she trailed him up the gangplank and onto the ship.

She thought he replied, “Thank you, no, I'd prefer single malt,” but his response was lost amid the other voices.

Hopewell snapped his fingers, summoning a man dressed in a first mate's outfit. The navy blue jacket and dashing red neckerchief were worn over an open-necked shirt so dazzlingly white it emphasized his swarthy face and drooping jowls, his crisply gelled black hair, and discolored teeth bared in a stiff smile.

“My personal assistant, Martin Dunhill,” Hopewell asserted, and added to Owen Montcalm, “Name your fee. Martin will see to it.”

Owen cited a generous price. Dunhill replied in a voice that was less plummy than lemony, “When I've seen your invoice, I'll pay up.”

Leaving them to it, Hopewell urged his visitors down a hatchway.

Molly expected period reproduction furniture, gleaming brass lanterns, hammocks for the sailors. But no. The pirate ship was no more than a shell around a modern yacht outfitted in casual, comfortable elegance. This wasn't the first expensively appointed yacht she'd seen, but that didn't mean she wasn't amazed by it.

Some of the visitors fanned out into other areas. Michael and Molly stayed with Hopewell, who walked a small group through living rooms, a professional galley, a dining area with a table so glossy Molly could have ice-skated on it. From the corridor where Molly stood, she could see the glass-and-steel desk that dominated his office. It was similar to the glass cases ranged along the corridor outside that held a variety of historical artifacts.

“These are just some of my collections.” Hopewell pointed to one of the cases, indicating a gold ear-pick salvaged from a sunken ship of the Spanish Armada, a curved gypsy knife inlaid with silver and a Scottish Highlander's dirk carried at the battle of Waterloo. Michael stepped between Molly and the showcase, camera flashing.

No matter. Here was her chance to dart into Hopewell's office and inspect what she'd thought was an old pocket watch displayed on his desk. She slipped away from the group and through the doorway.

Papers and folders were stacked rather than scattered on the desktop, and what looked like a map of Blackpool was half-covered by a pleated nautical chart of the Yorkshire coast. But Molly's eyes went to the Victorian time-piece protected by a glass dome. Perhaps it had belonged to one of Hopewell's ancestors. She would ask, except his
voice was fading away behind her, talking about engines and accompanied by multiple footsteps.

Another voice approached from the opposite direction—Dunhill again, speaking in a rapid mumble. He was still negotiating with Owen, Molly supposed. She started for the door, then stopped when Dunhill's voice rose. “Hopewell's got no need of the likes of you.”

As soon as she heard the second man, Molly realized it wasn't Owen. “Well, well, well, if little Martin Dunghill hasn't come a long way, fetching and carrying for a man with more silver than sense. How's the family, Marty?”

Dunghill?
Clearly the two men knew each other, and there was no love lost between them.

“The boss has got sense enough not to want your drugs.”

“You just tell him what I've got here. He'll see me, right enough.”

Quickly, Molly stepped behind the open door and peeked through the crack between it and the frame.

The second man was Willie Myners—like a bad penny, he kept turning up. But it wasn't a penny he held in the protective curve of his fingers. Gold glinted, then vanished as he thrust the object into the pocket of his worn corduroy trousers.

Was it a piece of jewelry? Fine jewelry wasn't the sort of thing Molly expected Willie to be carrying—his odd jobs were hardly actual employment. And what was that about drugs? Was Willie dealing, right here in Blackpool?

Dunhill sneered. “I know a confidence trick when I see one, Sunshine. Off you go.”

Willie stood with his hand on his pocket, his stance combative. “This is a pirate ship. Pirates have treasure. What's all this in the display cases, if not treas—?”
Hopewell's voice echoed down the passageway. Willie started toward it, but Dunhill shoved him in the opposite direction so brusquely he almost lost his footing. “Here!” he protested. “Be a pal, Marty, let me talk to the boss!”

“Push off,” Dunhill said. “Now.”

Molly stepped into the corridor as the two men disappeared around the corner. Should she tell Hopewell what she'd overheard? But Michael had just been teasing her about meddling in other people's business. Hopewell obviously trusted Dunhill to oversee matters on his yacht, and Dunhill was doing just that.

“There you are, Mrs. Graham,” called Hopewell. “I've been talking to your husband about the history of the area.”

“I'm sure you have.” Molly walked up beside Michael with a smile of indulgence for both men—a doubtful glance back to where Willie had showed Dunhill something that gleamed like gold.

 

M
ICHAEL WONDERED WHY
Molly's pink cheeks were rosier than usual. Then he noticed the watch on Hopewell's desk, and deduced that she'd nipped into his office for a closer look. She could tell the time on her iPhone, but no, she loved watches.

Hopewell led the way back up to the deck, where they found Jenkins's camera operator peering down a hatchway like an anteater nosing into an anthill. But it was Fred Purnell who asked, “How long are you planning to stop in Blackpool, Mr. Hopewell?”

“Trevor, please. I've never visited this lovely little town before, sad to say, but I'm planning to rectify my mistake and stay for a while. Pirates, smugglers, wreckers—what a treasure trove of legends!”

Michael could swear that Hopewell's teeth sparkled in the sunlight as he spoke. No wonder Molly had struggled to conceal her amusement when he'd first introduced himself. The man had a lot to offer in the way of entertainment.

“Thank you very much for the tour,” Molly told Hopewell.

Finding a bit of paper in his pocket, Michael jotted down his and Molly's phone numbers. “Please let us know when you can join us for dinner. I'd enjoy discussing pirates, smugglers and wreckers—I'm working on a new video game…”

Michael was interrupted by Jenkins jostling him and Purnell aside. Purnell in turn bumped up against Addison Headerly. Leaving the men to sort themselves out, the Grahams waved a final time to Hopewell and headed for the pier behind the official trio of Paddington, Krebs and Fotherby.

Martin Dunhill stood at the railing next to a dark-haired, heavy-jowled man in civilian garb, whose black beads of eyes considered the crowd and the town beyond. Molly's face flushed an even deeper pink, one of the many shades of her soft complexion, which complemented her shoulder-length auburn hair and amber-brown eyes. “What is it?” Michael asked, placing a protective arm around her shoulders.

She seemed not to hear him over the splash of water against the pier, the rattle of ships' rigging, the music of the band. Then, spotting Rohan Wallace coming toward them, she shrugged. “I overheard something. I'll tell you about it later. Would you like to get a bite to eat at the Café?”

Michael considered the dockside eatery. He could see even from here that people were queued out the door and
along the pavement. Those who had gotten inside were probably packed so tightly onto the balconies the pressure could launch the bright table-umbrellas like rockets. He made a counteroffer. “I'll bring home a takeaway from the Jade Dragon.”

“Good idea. Make mine moo shu tofu with a side of curry chips, okay? Hi, Rohan.”

“Hello, Molly,” Rohan replied with an affable nod. “Have you been visitin' the ship?”

“I'll let Michael fill you in. I promised to stop by the Style Shop, show Angela my dress in action. See you at home at six?” Rising on her toes, she kissed Michael's cheek.

“Right, love.” Michael allowed himself a moment's appreciation of her dress's action as she walked away. Then he looked around at Rohan's half smile. “What happened to Dylan? Have we lost him?”

“Yeah, mon. He said he was goin' back to the shop. I'm thinkin' Naomi's comment about missin' customers got to him. Still, there's no harm in askin' if he's got time for a beer at the Dockside.” Rohan started back along the pier.

“Yes, mate, the sun
is
over the yardarm—no pun intended,” Michael said with a last look at the
Black Sea Pearl
's useless but dramatic masts and yards rising high above the other boats. Dunhill no longer stood at the railing, but Hopewell was posing for both sets of cameras beside one of the mock cannons.

Michael and Rohan dodged and ducked toward Dylan's Bicycle Shop, which was tucked into the hillside just below Dockside Head. The tall white-painted cylinder of Glower Lighthouse atop the Head seemed innocent enough in the afternoon sunshine, but as with so many
places in Blackpool it concealed dark secrets—like an entrance to the town's catacombs.

Michael said, “Naomi's certain the shop's haunted by ghosts from the lighthouse—wreckers and plunderers and their victims, as well. She and Dylan should organize tours of their own, give the McKennas some competition.”

“They could hold seances on mopeds,” Rohan suggested with a laugh.

The men rounded the corner of the Mariner's Museum. There was Dylan Stewart just outside his shop, his massive hands wrapped around Willie Myners's throat. Dylan's red hair and angry red face made him look like a Viking berserker, a far cry from his usual good-natured, gentle-giant temperament.

In contrast, if Dylan was a Viking, Willie was a mop. His legs and feet slipped and slid on the cobblestones while his hands grappled with Dylan's mighty grip.

Michael and Rohan ran up to the shop. Between them they pulled Dylan off the smaller man, and Michael helped Willie to his feet. Hadn't he just glimpsed the man scuttling around a corner on Hopewell's yacht? He seemed to be everywhere today.